


Bittersweet Faith...

by Punk_in_Docs



Series: Along Came Benedict: The Ben and Libby Saga... [1]
Category: Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:23:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1658021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk_in_Docs/pseuds/Punk_in_Docs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I felt a hand link around my waist and a pair of lips pressed themselves to my neck, plucking the start of a kiss turned love bite onto my neck muscles that joined to my shoulder. I had to suffice a small moan as I would know the touch of those lips and the dexterous fingers on my waist anywhere, but I couldn’t deny nor stop the thrashing and tingling sensation that rocketed down my spine “Hello Stranger…” I moaned from in-between my lips smiling, as I turned in my arms to face the wonderful man behind me, who looked tired and done in, but whose eyes were glinting with mischief and the promise of a very great orgasm to come...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet Faith...

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration behind this chapter of their lives is taken from the song 'Bittersweet faith' by Bitter:sweet. It's a very sexy, lost and atmospheric song, and can take half the credit for the muse of fire behind this particular story... Give it a listen and I can promise you won't regret it...

 

 

It was roughly a week after mine and Benedict’s first date when the posh, arty invite slid through my letterbox, courtesy of mine and Ben’s old friend from Uni, Charlie, who was now an up and coming cosmopolitan and modern art photographer, turns out she was showcasing her new photo’s at a swanky art show in Hampstead, in the nearly unbearable, hipster end of Hampstead, where wannabe musicians and artists clamoured over shop fronts to state how talented they were. Whereas Charlie had the perfect eye for photography, unlike the clamouring idiots who wished they were half as good as she was.

 

I fingered the stiff invite in my hands, biting my lip in a smile as I realised Ben would doubtlessly be attending this art show. Charlie was our old roommate who used to have dreads, smoke pot and argue passionately about democracy. Of course he would attend her art show. No matter what ‘Hollywood’ activities littered his schedule, he would clear it or juggle it around for old friends.

 

I bit my lip further, supressing a large smile and the fuzzy mushy warmth that spread through my stomach in thinking about Benedict again. Work had kept me vaguely busy during the week, and exhausted enough not to pay attention to how I knew I felt, but when I thought back over the previous weeks, well. If you’re standing when you read this, I suggest you sit. We’ll be here a while as I explain.

 

Backtrack three weeks, and me and Benedict were just two friends who had known each other for 16 years.

Go back two weeks, and this would be the point where my eight month long relationship with Jasper O’Donoghue (a sex-on-legs black haired blue eyed wet dream who could do things to me in bed that would make me die of shame if I ever saw a cable knit green jumper again) ended nastily, complete with a tall naked blonde model and the man himself rolling around in my bed whilst I was away at work, coming home early to find them at it like rabbits. With shouted nasty words we parted ways. Me refusing to hear his apologies. Dumping all his stuff in the front drive for him to collect and take out of my life when he saw fit. Well, let’s say after the grinning and skinny blonde pulled on her skimpy dress and left, many things were shouted, hurled, broken, torn, thrown against walls. And subsequently, left me shrunken on the floor of my bedroom, staring at their sex mussed sheets, crying down the phone to my best friend, who caught a cab over and found me curled up with my knees pressed to my chest in the very spot where I had been for the past three hours, with shards of glass from shattered photo frames having cut my hands to shreds. But, Benedict just shrank to the floor beside me in the dark room, sweeping the glass out of his way as he stretched his mile long legs out in front of him and sat with me, and held me and listened to me cry.

 

And after that weepy little adventure of sorrow and anger, go back two and a half, and find me and Benedict, and Tom (yes, Hiddleston, my second best male friend who I’d known since childhood in oxford) were invited to a wedding out in the Cotswolds to celebrate the wedding of my second cousin,

 

Then if you like fast-forward to the night where I was forced to don a backless slinky black silk dress, and you have the night where me and Benedict stopped being friends, agreeing we had nearly always been mad about each other, his engagement that ended six months previous being for the reason his fiancée thought he was far too in love with me, and me pouring out to him over the wedding dinner my deep profession that I hadn’t had sex in seven months since I first started seeing Jasper, who seemed indifferent to the subject whenever it came up, and my secret claim of just wanting to be made love too, instead of fucked, led to us being the last ones on the dance floor as he swayed graciously to Nina Simone’s ‘I put a spell on you’ during the last few closing notes of which, my old friend Ben, reeled me in for a mind numbing kiss. And I was lost to him from that moment onwards. Meaning we spent the night doing exactly what he insisted I needed, being made love too. It was tender, soft, loving, gentle, slow and amazing. And when we woke the next morning, we consensually agreed that we give it all or nothing. (When really, how could I forget the man, and my best friend, who gave me five orgasms in a row?) And we attended the wedding breakfast, for about twenty minutes, until he slunk up behind me, kissed me hard and purred into my ear that I had better not think about ignoring what happened between us last night, as he had never come so hard in all his life. At which point, we ran for cover in the nearest linen cupboard, where, as if there were a watershed on our lovemaking, we proceeded to do every filthy thing we could think of to each other. Getting the mad animalistic style beginning of relationship sex out of the way.

 

And then, arriving at the three week mark, we arrived back in London, privy of our newfound addiction to having earth shatteringly good sex with one another, we then unanimously agreed to date, which we did. I came home from work on the Friday, with the intention of having a long hot bath and slipping into something silky, black, lacy and very uncomfortable for him, to find instead he had already let himself in, and proceeded to cook me my favourite dish (prawn taglitelli) for dinner in my kitchen, singing along awfully to moon dance by Michael buble. So, we ate dinner, laughed, drank wine, and flirted the whole evening, and just as he pulled on his coat to leave, both of us thinking it would be best if we left sex alone for a while, I offered my hand to him for a handshake, which he took, then walked out my front door. Which, was fine for about two minutes, until he ran back, stormed in, kissed me savagely and we ended up shagging for four hours on my sofa.

 

And after that, ladies and gentlemen, is where I find myself now. With a best friend turned lover who could make me come by voice alone, who knew how to cook my favourite dish and had seen just about every embarrassing haircut I’d had, ever. Was now my secret Lover. Only secret as I was hesitant about being broadcast all over the globe as Benedict Cumberbatch’s girlfriend – although that had been hinted at many times before as I had been the one on his arm to many a premiere. He completely understood my need for secrecy for a while, with the press hounding him day and night and millions of fans drooling over what colour toothbrush he used. We decided secrecy would be our safeguard for a while. (We weren’t even telling our closer than close best friend, Tom. Yes. Again, Hiddleston) who we had both known since before our Uni days. Which made us feel like such sleazes, but then we’d have sex again and remind ourselves just what is was we were protecting.

 

The invite slid in my door on the Monday proceeding the weekend after the ‘no sex’ date night the previous Friday. Which I now stood examining in my hands, pondering whether or not to go, Ben was filming in Cardiff this week, (which meant hot bouts of phone sex to get us through the week) he would be back Thursday, the party was on Friday. And there was a bright emerald green halter dress long forgotten in my wardrobe that needed a good airing….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I stepped out from the cool night air of the beginning to chill London evening, ensconcing myself in instant heat and chatter as I entered Charlie’s airy and glass dominated shop front that was her gallery. Already I liked the huge black and white prints that were stretched across every wall, very modern blurry black and white shots of new York, making you feel like you were strolling down 42nd street In Manhattan, rather than sheltering from a cold London night in a gallery that smelt like crab cakes and the packed heat of crowds of people milling around. I grabbed a tall flute of champagne after checking my phone and bag into the cloakroom, and slowly circulating my way around until I spotted the wild disarray of coppery red flaming hair that was wound into thick coils, (it put to mind a similar hair arrangement to Merida from Brave) no longer were there dreads in her hair, but an elegant mad and wild display of curls that bounced vibrantly against the sea of blonde and brunette, and the swamp of black dresses.

 

I wormed my way over to Charlie, who squealed when she saw me, throwing me headfirst into a hug as she gabbled how good it was to see me again.

 

“I’d Love to chat, Darling, but I have far too many art critics to please, hoighty-toighty socialist bastards that they are, they think they’re all gods’ gifts… honestly. Anyway, take a look, and start from the front and work your way back. I designed it that way, you will love it, I know…”

 

She insisted, shaking her head so her hair moved like coils of red flame under the bright and harsh spotlight lighting. I laughed.

 

“There is yet a day to come when I will not love your work.” I insisted, moving off to look at aforesaid work before she caught my arm

 

“MN. P.s. Love the dress, by the way, don’t let me forget to introduce you to Parker Huntington later, Canary wharf, banker, richer than god and judging by the way he’s stood, hung like a ruddy racehorse. You two, I see it happening, big wedding, beautiful children…” she ushered, nudging me in the ribs and winking.

 

“Then I shall be on the prowl…” I joked, winking back.

 

“Oh, and Ben RSVP’d he should be joining later, any idea where he is this time?” she enquired.

 

I shrugged.

 

“Benedict Is as Benedict does, plus don’t forget you have to factor in his usual tardiness.”

 

I reminded her, walking away through the crowds, she smiled after me, laughing and moving off to mingle with her art critics.

 

I was quickly swept up in the atmosphere of her photography, with a soulful and deep atmospheric song sweeping along my ears, licking seductively up into my ears as I looked at the photos that reclined against the wall in front of me, I tilted my head to the side, getting utterly lost in the artwork, as a siren blared somewhere far away in outside London, I was lost, indifferent, caught in the seductive haze of the music, the photos and the champagne. I lingered for a very long while on the particular painting I loved, in a shadowy and dark corner of the exhibit, which was cornered off by a jagged long maze of large photo boards in the way.

 

I had just moved onto a new painting that thrilled me and pulled me in just like all the other prints had done, when I felt eyes burn into my back. I ignored the unknown onlooker, paying no heed to their voyeurism of my exploration deep into the world of Charlie’s art.

 

She was quite a sight to be admired under the strange half spotlight, half dark of the gallery. She had her back to me as she walked. But there was no mistaking that curvy pale body for another woman. Plus the familiar long span of her lengthy legs as they strode out as she walked. My eyes couldn’t help but rest on the perfect globe of her perfect ass as she walked. Her glorious thighs and ample bottom straining the fabric at the back of her dress. The back dipped down low over her back, the green halter strap at her neck the only semblance of colour on her otherwise pale and bare back, as the dress fell away to reveal the jagged curve of her spine, and the unmistakable small tattoo she had under her right shoulder blade, it was a sailor’s swallow, not very big, but big enough to see from this distance. And he knew with private glee what other tattoos were there but weren’t on show, he had spent numerous hours licking over them, tracing them out with his tongue. And what else he adored – aswell as the tight fit of her dress that showcased every inch of her body that was his – was the flaming green hue of her dress, that stood out like a sirens tempting call in the sea of safe choices of LBD’s and black suits. He couldn’t see her face from this angle, but her short bob of reddy brown hair that shone more red under the light was down just above her shoulders, curled and tousled and sexy looking, granted he could only see the back of her head. He watched as she passed from one photo to the other, the seductive sexiness of her stride – being unwatched – and matching the sexy purring of the atmospheric song as she walked, made Ben instantly a little stiff under the seam of his trousers. It had been a long work week, and he was looking to unwind, he had a week’s break until they picked it back up the week after next. He planned to spend a long remainder of that week off in Libby’s bed with said woman. (He didn’t wish to be crude, they were in public after all, but he rather wanted to spend the week _inside_ the woman herself) he chastised his randy all male boarding schoolboy innuendos for the moment, instead choosing to watch his sexy girlfriend while her back was turned for a moment, before he went and said hello. And it seems like his introduction would be best conducted in the maze of photos she was walking into, which was effectively cornering her off from the rest of the gallery. Perfect…

 

 

 

 

 

I paused in the maze of photo’s, one to take a sip of the crisp sweet champagne that was still cool even in the warmth of my grip. And also to look at the stunning floor to ceiling piece in front of me, not sensing that the staring of the interested voyeur had stopped, and was now advancing instead. I moved to walk to the next piece of artwork, when I felt a hand link around my waist and a pair of lips pressed themselves to my neck, plucking the start of a kiss turned love bite onto my neck muscles that joined to my shoulder. I had to suffice a small moan as I would know the touch of those lips and the dexterous fingers on my waist anywhere, but I couldn’t deny nor stop the thrashing and tingling sensation that rocketed down my spine.

 

“Hello Stranger…”

 

I moaned from in-between my lips smiling, as I turned in my arms to face the wonderful man behind me, who looked tired and done in, but whose eyes were glinting with mischief and the promise of a great orgasm. He was kitted out in a crisp looking black suit, with a white shirt and no tie, but the way the light fell in crests and waves over his jacket told me it was velvet, and it was a deep blue colour with a black silk collar. The crisp precision of his clothes told me he had dumped his stuff at either my place, or his, and leapt in the shower before he came to wash the travelling off him. As he was stood so close I could smell the masculine and citrusy fresh scent of his shower gel, along with the spice and gentle allure of his aftershave that he had no doubt hastily dabbed on his neck and cheeks, a scent that would be mine to find later, trailblazing the path of scent with my lips. A good indication of a week-long of being Sherlock took its toll on his features in the form of slightly darkened bags under his eyes, the sharp paced sociopath tended to wear through to my Benedict beneath him, I knew this week would be a slow, intellectually banned week of rubbish telly, junk food and hot _hot_ sex to help shake of the lingering remnants off Sherlock’s character on him.

 

“You look all done in...”

 

I clucked, as he swiped my champagne glass and lifted it to his lips, letting the familiar taste of alcohol penetrate his system, he wasn’t denied it on the set of Sherlock, he just preferred to rebuff it to himself in an attempt to stay in the character of the abstinent and distanced man who his character was. (Although as for the abstinence part, that had to have been lacking due to the fact we had phone sex nearly every night this passing week) but now he could kick back and shake off the demands of his role. And he looked like he wanted a long hot hard shag before a long undisturbed night of sleep and no early mornings any day soon.

 

“That’s an accurate way of putting it…” He teased, eyes glinting as he held the now empty champagne glass down by his thigh, the arm around my waist linking me closer to his taut yet tired body. Pressing a quick yet passionate stolen kiss to my lips.

 

I shuddered a hot breath into his mouth, wary of getting caught having a vicious snog session in public. We were still trying – not very hard this evening, clearly – to keep a lid on what we had. Which he must’ve understood, as he pulled away and his hand stole south and gave my ass a light slap followed by a firm squeeze.

 

“I’ve missed you. You in all your fleshy sexy gloriousness. I forgot that sex doesn’t involve an iPhone, and a box of tissues.”

 

He spoke tiredly, but his tone was no less horny. Libby raised one eyebrow sympathetically and tipped her smile up at him.

 

“Let’s at least finish Charlie’s exhibition before you take me home and shackle me to the bed for the next week.”

 

Libby pleaded, looping her arm around him as they walked back down the way he had come, slowly savouring the photography, as every piece was just as stunning as the next.

 

Benedict, too horny and too tired to hear anything else, only picked up on the word ‘shackle’

 

“Was that a suggestion?” he purred close to her ear.

 

She coloured a fetching shade of pink under the harsh lighting, blue eyes gleaming defiantly back at him.

 

“No it was not. Now, please, put away your schoolboy randiness away for one second, and just… enjoy the artwork…” she chided.

 

But she was learning that once Ben was turned on, he was turned on. And it was a difficult task to get him to stow his fiery arousal once it had reared its head, so to speak.

 

Benedict smirked to himself, Stretching his frame taller as one hand ‘accidentally’ slipped down and pinched her bum in his hand, before curving over the full weight of it, gripping the flesh in his hands as he kneaded.

 

“Benedict.”

 

She gritted out between her teeth, squirming away from him as he chuckled, that mischievous gleam in his eyes and the crinkling smile she had missed was now coming out to play. And he was not to be so easily deterred… but he knew her well enough to know that she was getting turned on too as her breath went all skittish and shallow.

 

“You know what I was thinking about last night, after we, uhm, how do I put this delicately, _hung up…”_

He spoke quietly so that no one else could hear them and they walked side by side, closely through the hallway of art. He was of course, referring to the very great phone sex they had the night previously.

 

“What?” Libby asked, her attention turned to the artwork beside them, listening out for Benedict’s answer.

 

“That long and amazing stretch of time we spent in the linen cupboard at your cousins wedding, remember?”

 

“I remember…” she dismissed quickly.

 

“I was just thinking how great you looked in that blue dress. As I recall it was low cut at the front, and very tight at the back, I remember I got hard just watching you walk in front of me, looking at that sexy ass of yours as it swayed. And those sexy heels that made your legs look inherently long, long enough to wrap around my waist when I fucked you so hard and deep up against that wall. Do you recall that? You must, I’ve never wanted to make a girl come that hard or fast before…”

 

Libby nearly stumbled on her feet in her nude heels at hearing the sexy and filthy words that were pouring from his mouth. Benedict chuckled darkly into her ear in a very off putting way. Her pulse was thrumming through her body in an indication that she was very ashamedly aroused now, but she was ignoring it.

 

“I mean it, behave yourself, we are in public, have you forgotten our agreement for secrecy?”

 

she smiled, accepting another flute of champagne to distract ben from talking some more, he accepted a flute of his own from the passing tray, sipping on it sweetly and humbly, acting as if he wasn’t pouring what sounded like a soft porn novel into Libby’s ears while they walked around the gallery. Ah the damned compartmentalisation of thespians. To remain completely cool and indifferent even if they were bubbling with something else completely under the surface.

 

“No, I have an excellent memory. I haven’t forgotten. Just like you promised me on Wednesday night that you could, what was it again? _ah yes_ , ride my cock until we were both boneless and exhausted…”

 

Libby’s jaw twitched in annoyance, but she let a slightly turned on smile cover it.

 

“I did say that, didn’t I?”

 

“Oh yes, you did.” Ben purred.

 

“I’ll tell you a secret, I think I tossed myself off more than once that night just thinking about you, on top of me, ploughing onto my thick hard cock until you couldn’t take any more orgasms, and you were so hoarse from screaming my name til you sobbed for mercy.”

 

“If you’re trying to turn me on, ashamedly, it’s working…” Libby finished, sipping her drink, thankfully as they came to the last row of photo’s at Charlie’s exhibition.

 

“Thank the lord for that, I was seconds way from proving to you how turned on I was… Nice to know I’m not alone in that avenue of suffering…”

 

“How would you have prov-”

 

Her words halted in her mouth as she queried exactly how Benedict would show her how aroused he was. They came to an abrupt stop, and his body tucked tightly into her behind as she paused and it looked like they had simply stumbled into one another. This was not the case, the man had no shame, Libby discovered, as he pressed to her back, and she could feel him against her ass, semi hard under the seam of his trousers. Much more dirty talk from him and he would be hard as granite and fighting very adamently against a raging tent in his trousers that could rival a steel pole. 

 

“And this is me holding back…” He whispered gently, following his heated and vulgarly good yet filthy actions with soothing words to follow.

 

She was so turned on by his words and actions that she couldn’t help the next slightly cheeky tone of words that poured out from her lips.

 

“Where do you get your sexual energy from? You’re staring down the barrel of forty, you suffer from occasional back spasms, and your hips hurt when it gets cold or damp. How can you go from that, to the demeanour of a randy teen in the prime of life within half an hour? Not to mention you should be shot to pieces after a longer than usual working week….”

 

She questioned, with a cheeky smile from as no one was looking at them in the shadowy corner of an art gallery and Benedict nuzzled into the back of her neck again, pressing against her ass, she felt he was harder now.

 

“Because, when I am around you my dear, I _am_ a randy teen in my prime again. That’s what you do to me. And all the filthy things I dreamed I would one day be able to do to and with a woman, back then, I can do with you now. Because you are all my filthy teenage wet dreams rolled into one amazing woman. Who happens to have a fantastic world class ass, a heavenly pair of tits, and legs longer than a barstool. The only difference being that you’re not blonde, you’re my feisty spirited redhead, most of the women I fantasised about when I was younger, were blonde.”

 

“Blondes are flaky. Good for one night. You’ll never forget a night you spend with a redhead Cumberbatch…” she purred naughtily.

 

Benedict hummed softly about that.

“You’re right about that, Mrs Hottest-shag-I’ve-ever-had…” he growled into her ear, smirking.

 

“Besides which, you imp.”

He began, slapping her ass with a light slap, designed to excite, and not to sting.

 

“…. Here you are, admonishing me about my age, I recall a woman who can’t go up a flight of stairs too quickly or it hurts her knees, and, most weeknights you’re asleep or in bed by nine with a cup of tea, your reading glasses, and a Julia Quinn book.”

 

Libby smiled. He had her trapped on that point.

 

“Alright. Touché.” She surrendered, waving the proverbial white flag.

 

“Can we please leave now? Because if I have to whisper one more dirty sordid sentence about impaling you on my cock, I think this long night of hot shagging will be short lived and ruined if I come in my boxers right here….”

 

Libby squirmed in her dress, her thighs sliding together, ass swaying in front of Ben to drive him crazy as she set her glass down and went to wish her goodbyes to Charlie, telling her to put a hold on the painting on the far left.

 

Charlie waved them off,

 

“Oh, shit! Libby, I didn’t introduce you to Parker. I swear, that man has the Eiffel tower down the front of his trousers…”

 

“Maybe next time Charlie.” She winked, walking out with her coat and bag in her hands as ben said his goodbyes, then tried hard not to make it look like he was trailing after Libby like a horny stalker.

 

They got onto the street, and Libby felt two hands slink around her back, shamefully something very urgent was pressing into her ass now with unleashed force, as hard as steel, and Benedict’s voice was now husky and urgent. A sexy roar that made her knees melt. And her resolve as she felt her own arousal tingle through her spine and ripple through the sensitive throbbing between her legs.

 

“Your place or mine?”

 

And she didn’t even have to turn and look, because she knew Benedict had said it with a filthy, fuck-me-now smirk on his cupids bow lips...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
